


The Sha of Pride

by Laeviss



Category: World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Anal Fisting, Blow Jobs, Bulges, M/M, Mild Dubcon (Sha Intervention), Small dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 20:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6129663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Negotiations at the Shrine of the Two Moons become heated when Lor'themar stands up to Garrosh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sha of Pride

They shouldn’t have stayed after hours.

While Garrosh’s Kor’kron had huddled between them around the Order of Battle they had been fine. Annoyed, maybe, and Garrosh could have done without a few of the elf’s snide remarks, but it had been nothing like this.

The greying light of the Vale at dusk seemed to change them. Garrosh had felt on edge from the moment they arrived– there was something, a cool whisper tickling his ear, that made him tense– and after dark that whisper grew to a howl. He found himself grasping and knocking Alliance soldiers across the board, sending them rolling until they hit the marble floor with a ‘clck.’ And Lor’themar watched, incensed. His arms crossed over his chest.

“My people will not be made your pawns at the Throne of Thunder. You are sending us there to die.” Lor’themar huffed, his chest rising and falling beneath his red leather tunic. “At least provide us with an escort of Orgrimmar soldiers. The Alliance has provided Proudmoore–”

“I don’t care what the Alliance has done!” Garrosh hadn’t expected the shout to come out so loudly. It shook the table and the door with its bellowing Mogu face. Garrosh glared at it, as if it could somehow come and intervene. He wasn’t sure why he felt so drawn to its power, to its glower that seemed to mirror his own, but–

“Are you a coward? Would you have the Horde withdraw its efforts in Tanaan and Kun’lai to fight your battles for you? It’s treachery! Weak, pathetic–”

“It’s treachery to send your people on a suicide mission. If you do this–”

“– You are not my people.”

His growl hung in the air. For a moment, Lor’themar looked almost stunned, his eye, narrowed, staring up from beneath the sharp lines of his brow and his hand clenched around the end of the table.

But, Garrosh assured himself, he had spoken true. The elves had never wanted a part of his Horde. He saw it in how they bristled when an orc or troll stepped too close and in the way they scrunched their noses and hissed in their native tongue when visiting Orgrimmar. His people had tried to accommodate them. Thrall had taken them in when no one else would. And yet they had treated the Horde like an embarrassment, a disgrace. The voice reminded him. It whispered–

When he looked up again, Lor’themar’s lips were curled in disgust, as if to confirm the murmurs growing in Garrosh’s mind. It was that look that made him grit his teeth, chest puffing, hand all but snatching the blood elf soldiers from beneath Lor’themar’s gaze. He slammed them into the table. A head rolled to the left, a broken staff to the right, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy him. He picked up the crimson-bannered ship and tossed it at Lor’themar’s face: that awful, leering, _stupid_ face and all he wanted to do was smash it beneath his fist.

But then, after a stunned moment of silence, Lor’themar started laughing.

“You truly are a child, Garrosh Hellscream.” The elf straightened. The disgust on his face had been replaced by bitter amusement. Rolling back his own shoulders to remain towering over him, he watched as the elf took two steps to the left, smoothing over his eyepatch and tucking back a strand of hair, before coming to stand immediately in front of him.

They stood, frozen, for a moment. Garrosh’s eyes narrowed to counter Lor’themar’s leer: tense, ready to strike. Until Lor’themar took another step.

“I will not be treated like one of your Kor’kron,” the elf demanded in a voice dripping with malice. Garrosh’s shadow looming across his face did nothing to deter him, and it was clear from the straightness of his stance and the curl of his lips he had no intention of backing down.

Garrosh felt his heart clench in his chest. He tried to ignore it, tried to fight back the clammy fingers crawling up the nape of his neck, but he caught himself shivering. A voice, unbidden, rose from his throat: “What do you suggest I do, then?”

That seemed to satisfy him. The malice in his voice dropped when he turned to gesture towards the board. Long fingers– Garrosh had never noticed how lithe they were, or the way they curled so delicately around pieces that fit perfectly into their grip– swept up a broken soldier and righted the ship Garrosh had tossed in his direction.

He began again: polished, assured, glancing at him through a curtain of hair that had tumbled down past his cheeks. “As I was saying,” the cough that punctuated his words betrayed his annoyance, but Garrosh let it pass. “My troops will win the island for the Horde, but not without a proper escort. We’d rather not fight the Alliance in a five-to-one battle–”

There was a bite in his words that seemed to add “we’re not orcs, after all,” but Garrosh may have misheard. It was getting hard to tell thought from whisper at this point. He rubbed his forehead and grit his teeth. When he turned to look again, Lor’themar’s eye flashed in the room’s fading light.

“A victory in the Mogu stronghold will bring new understanding of this land. Understanding that will prove vital in this war, Hellscream. Aethas assures it.”

Garrosh’s jaw remained clenched; at this point, he wasn’t sure whether he was defiant to Lor’themar’s request, or simply didn’t want to admit defeat. Either way, he wouldn’t let himself bend to the whim of an elf so easily.

“And if you fail as you failed to protect your city.”

He could tell the remark had the desired effect. Lor’themar’s breath caught in his throat, and he let out a grunt, entirely undignified. Garrosh sneered and leaned over to knock the ship from his hand.

“If your troops can rally after their failures in Ashenvale, I assure you, Hellscream, we will have _no trouble_ putting down Proudmoore and her ilk.”

That did it.

Yanking back his hand, Garrosh found his fingers wrapped around Lor’themar’s wrist. Not sure what had prompted the grab, he stopped, willing himself to withdraw, but the elf felt _so small_ beneath his palm and the way his tendons tensed was more than enough encouragement. Garrosh slammed his hand down on the table, forcing his fingers to splay. Lor’themar grimaced, then growled. His indignation swelled.

“What do you think you’re doing?” There were no pretenses left. “Let go of me.”

“How dare you speak against the soldiers of the Horde?”

Garrosh could have snapped his wrist in half, and he wanted to. Oh, he wanted to. The whispers all but _demanded_ it, and if not for the shout that came next he probably would have done it. But somehow, pinned though he was, on the brink of losing his wrist, Lor’themar rallied. Again, he straightened, jerking to face Garrosh even if it meant twisting his shoulder into a dangerous position. And, unstrained, unhindered, he countered:

“How dare you speak against _my_ soldiers of the Horde?”

Shout still ringing in the air, Lor’themar’s arm still twisted into an unnatural pose, they froze and stared. Garrosh’s lips remained in a snarl, but Lor’themar wouldn’t back down. Nobody drew a breath. Nobody shifted, or retorted, or even snapped.

And then, Garrosh leaned forward.

For the life of him, he couldn’t explain why he did it. It wasn’t the whispers this time; if anything it was the voice they tried to stamp out, his own thoughts taken by Lor’themar and the defiance with which he met Garrosh’s jeer. He hated stubbornness but it always got him going. And the elf’s lips looked _so soft,_ curled as they were, twisted with anger and pride.

He tilted hit head, and pressed his lower lip against Lor’themar’s mouth. The hand grasping his wrist slid back along his bracer, then his bicep, then to the curve of his shoulder. It didn’t grab. It merely steadied him, allowing him to stoop down, to press into the kiss.

To tumble forward onto the table when Lor’themar jerked away.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The elf wiped his lips across the back of his hand. Flexing the fingers, he let out a ‘pft’ past the knuckles then scraped them across the edge of the table. Garrosh knew he was doing it for show. The revelation left him even more flustered– and incensed– face darkening as he scrambled to drag himself back upright.

“Well?” When Garrosh didn’t answer, Lor’themar persisted. He couldn’t believe the gall of the elf to demand an answer of his Warchief, but no matter how irate it made Garrosh it failed to inspire confidence. He simply remained silent. Eyes glared. Lips pursed together in a frown. There were few whispers left to help him now.

“I didn’t know you were into me, Garrosh.”

At that the orc had no trouble responding, but it was more desperate than confident. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, elf.” But he did. They both did. Garrosh cursed himself for the strain in his voice, the way it faded rather than swelling to a growl at the end as he had intended. His throat felt too tight to move. The corners of his lips ached as he forced them up into a glare, and Lor’themar just ignored him, turning instead to lean against the table.

“It’s almost _flattering_.” It was hard to tell if the remark was sincere or a jab at Garrosh’s blush. He took it to be the latter. “Have you been pining after me, Hellscream? Have I been distracting you?”

“I would never be distracted by the likes of you!” Garrosh’s hand hit the opposite side of the table. His frame loomed over Lor’themar’s, arms trapping him on either side and the table pressed against his lower back. But he didn’t back down. Garrosh grew more angry and shamed by the second.

“An elf, and not even an attractive one–”

“– Are you admitting you find sin’dorei attractive?”

“– I didn’t say–”

“Oh,” Lor’themar’s voice dripped with smugness, like one of those vile honey wines the elves imported to Orgrimmar. Sweet, and sickening. Garrosh blanched at the sound. “But I think you did, Hellscream.”

“Fuck you, Theron.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Arghh!” The table screeched across the floor as Garrosh gave it a shove. Caught off guard, Lor’themar stumbled back a few steps, lower back cracking at it bent around the edge of the table. And Garrosh might have been glad to wipe the smirk from his face if he, too, didn’t find himself tripping to accommodate the shift. His arm hit the table with a thud. There was a hollow ‘clnk,’ then an ache between his eyes as their foreheads knocked together. 

“What the _fuck_ , Hellscream?”

His breath felt hot against Garrosh’s face. Realizing with a start where they were, again, Garrosh jerked back and forced his posture to straighten. It was clear he was overcompensating– his shoulders now rigid lines jutting out from his neck– but it was better than looking unnerved. Lor’themar rubbed his fingers against the bridge of his nose and regarded the orc with a scowl.

“If you’re going to jump me, Garrosh, this game is over.” He brushed off the front of his vestments, his fingers pale against crimson leather. Unable to stop himself, Garrosh followed the graceful ‘swsh’ of his hand with his gaze. He felt heat and frustration rising to his cheeks.

“I’d never jump you, Lor’themar,” he insisted. What had gotten into him? He gave his head a shake, lower jaw slack as he tried to find the words to explain. The whispers. The anger. The need to save face.

The way Lor’themar’s hair glittered like gold in the fading dusk.

“If we do this, it is on my terms. Understand?”

He swallowed, and nodded. Once again, he struggled to find his voice.

“Switch positions with me.”

The same tone that had driven Garrosh mad with frustration now left him helpless. Compelled by its forcefulness, enticed by its smoothness, he gave in, turning to rest his backside against the table. Clearly pleased, Lor’themar moved to stand in front of him and reached up to press his palm against his cheek. His fingers traced along his tusk, then the swell of his lower lip, then the line of his jaw. Garrosh held his breath.

“Better,” the elf mused, the pad of his fingers soft as they trailed down Garrosh’s neck. It was as if they explored him, admiring the swell of his muscles and the way he tensed as they rolled over his chest. They were every bit as lithe as he had observed and twice as confident. It both unnerved and unwound him; no amount of shame could make him tug away from that touch.

Instead he was forced to stand, legs shaking, face several shades darker than it should have been, and stare down into the elf’s glowing eye.

Garrosh’s hips tensed as the elf’s palm moved lower: along his side, over a taut oblique, and to the row of muscle striping his abdomen just above the belt. Lor’themar let out a soft laugh, seeming to sense the change in Garrosh’s posture. His hand lingered a few moments too long. They said nothing, but Garrosh’s gritting teeth revealed exactly how he felt, and what he wanted.

“Well?” Garrosh managed to mutter. His voice rumbled in the back of his throat.

“Well?” Lor’themar countered. His fingers curled, digging into Garrosh’s skin, before withdrawing. When they returned, it was to slide up his thigh and rest between his legs. Garrosh let out a yelp as the hand tightened around the bulge it found there. Even without the whispers, it became harder and harder to think.

And Lor’themar seemed not only to sense it, but to relish in it. He rolled his thumb over the curve in his pants while his other fingers slipped below. Cupping. Squeezing. Garrosh knocked back against the table.

“ _Well_? Are you going to do it?”

“Take off your pants for me.”

What? The request left him stunned, but before he could growl a protest Lor’themar had released his grip on his cock and taken a step back. His eyes now searched him: from his face and his heaving chest to the swell of fabric below his belt. Looking to the side, Garrosh knew he had no choice to comply and made quick work of the latches holding his belt together.

By the time he dropped the belt on the table beside him and moved to the lacings at the front of his pants, his hands were trembling. He couldn’t shake the intensity of Lor’themar’s gaze. He almost looked _hungry_ , and Garrosh didn’t know whether to feel flattered or shamed. He resorted to averting his gaze, fumbling, but finally getting the laces undone and working his hand into his pants.

His cock twitched when freed from its leather confines, the cool air of dusk coaxing it up to full hardness. But before he could give it a stroke– his hand felt good around it, firm and strong, almost enough to make him forget the elf’s stare– he was stopped. The soft pad of a thumb pressed against his wrist.

“That’s enough, thank you,” the elf’s purr– feigned though it may have been– made him freeze. His hand fell limp, and Lor’themar had no trouble easing it to rest against the edge of the table. He then kneeled and replaced the orc’s fingers with his own.

Garrosh’s breath hitched. The elf’s, on the other hand, blew out to tease the head of his cock, tickling it, making it throb, as his fingers trailed from foreskin to base. “Impressive,” he admitted, and there was no hint of scorn in his voice. This time, Garrosh didn’t question the compliment. He was far too focused on Lor’themar’s touch and the way his thumb toyed with the piercing pushed through his slit.

“Ever–” An awkward laugh escaped Garrosh’s lips. If anything, it was an attempt to hide the strain in his voice “– see an orc’s cock before?”

“That,” Lor’themar leaned forward, using his free hand to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. His tongue replaced his thumb, and, before Garrosh could process what was happening, he rubbed it along his slit and slid the ring through its hole. The Warchief gasped. Lor’themar’s snicker tickled his skin. “–is none of your concern.”

And with Lor’themar’s mouth against his cock, he couldn’t help but agree. The elf’s lips, just as soft as they had been in their kiss, pressed against his head, grazing it, as if trying to get a feel for the girth, as his hand started to pump the shaft. His fingers rolled over the row of piercings lining its underside and his thumb guided back the foreskin, neither rushed nor teasing. Just fast enough to make Garrosh’s thighs tense.

He laughed. The vibrations left Garrosh shaking, and with that, he wrapped his lips around him and started to suck 

They continued like that for what could’ve been seconds or hours. Garrosh lost track of time, taken as he was by the elf’s mouth making its way– impressively so– down his shaft and the way his throat twitched as Garrosh brushed back against it. His mouth was hot, and his tongue skilled. He might’ve even bucked forward if Lor’themar hadn’t forced his hip back in place.

Between the elf’s control and the intensity of his stare looking up from between his legs, Garrosh struggled to breathe. Tension started to mount. It coiled, building at the base of his cock, and he had to bite his upper lip to quell the cry that threatened to escape him. If nothing else, he could retain some dignity in silence. Though even that, he assumed, would soon crumble under the confidence of Lor’themar’s grip.

Every time the elf swallowed, his hair fell forward, tickling Garrosh’s abdomen and leaving him quivering with its caress. Like his fingers, every lock was impossibly soft. He wanted to bury his fingers in it, to clutch it, to slide it back and thrust into Lor’themar’s mouth as he neared his release.

But as soon as he moved his hand, Lor’themar gave it a smack. His lips stilled against the head of his cock.

“ _No._ ” He warned, and then: “What did I say?”

Garrosh let out a growl: weak, all but dying in his throat. “I’m going to cum.”

“Not on my face, you are not. Drop your pants and turn around.”

So Lor’themar intended to fuck him. Though the whispers started to return, reminding him _he_ was in control and _he_ was the Warchief, he couldn’t find it in his heart to care. When the elf looked up at him he wore the same curled-lip sneer as before, but there was an eager flash in his eye that betrayed his excitement. Garrosh couldn’t help but notice how flushed his lips were. He smiled. When Lor’themar sat back on his heels, he turned and dropped his pants.

And then the elf’s fingers were on him again, this time guiding open his legs and reaching up to squeeze the curve of his ass. Bending over the table, the Warchief waited, legs shaking, cock leaking though bereft of Lor’themar’s touch. He couldn’t stand it. He arched his back and pressed into Lor’themar’s hand.

“Lick it,” he mumbled, desperate, the side of his face shoved against the map. He could feel the heat of Lor’themar’s breath against the small of his back.

“Pft.” His exhale drew out a shiver, and his finger dipped between Garrosh’s cheeks. “Don’t kid yourself, Hellscream.”

At that, the elf rose to his feet and left Garrosh sprawled over the table. He wanted to yell or insist he return, but the promise of what was to come kept him in place. He resorted to gripping the map and its pieces, pressing his face against the parchment and fighting to find purchase on the relatively-smooth surface. After what felt like ages, Lor’themar returned. There was a soft ‘pop’ of a bottle opening, then two slicked fingers found Garrosh’s hole.

“Do this often, Hellscream?” It was probably a genuine question, but the smugness with which he said it made Garrosh scratch a line on the table. He looked back. Lor’themar leaned forward, his two fingers sinking, with little strain, inside.

“Do what?” He snapped through a hitch in his breath.

“Spread yourself out over your Order of Battle for a sin’dorei cock. What do you think?”

Ugh. He hated it. But Lor’themar’s fingers felt _so good_. Fuck, he didn’t care. He couldn’t–

“–I’ve had cocks in my ass before, if that’s what you mean.”

“I see.” With a snicker, and a brush of his hair against Garrosh’s shoulder that left the orc shuddering, he added a third finger, and nipped the base of his neck. “Who would have known the Warchief of the Horde would be so docile in bed?” His lips slid between Garrosh’s shoulders; his three fingers curled to drag along his inner wall. “What my people would give to see you right now.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

“Would you like that?”

“Lor–!”

And then there were four. Garrosh hadn’t been expecting it, and, even with the thinness of Lor’themar’s fingers, it was a bit of a stretch. A cry rose to his lips as he willed himself to relax. His cock leaked; there was only the cool air between his legs to wrap around it, but somehow, as Lor’themar pressed against him from inside, it was more than enough. His shoulders trembled. His body slumped forward, and Lor’themar leaned up to kiss his ear.

“Good. I’m going to add my thumb now. Bear down on it and make this easy for both of us.”

Thumb.

Oh.

If Garrosh had been blushing before, now his face was on fire. He was thankful for the table, pressing into it, all but clinging to it as Lor’themar stepped back to change his position. He didn’t dare look back.

There was another soft ‘pop,’ but this time, Lor’themar drizzled it down between his cheeks and let it soak the back of his hand. Dropping the bottle on the table, he brought his other hand to rest lightly, almost comfortingly, against Garrosh’s hip. A gentle gesture that stung, even more shameful than his orders.

His hand pressed inside. It was tight, almost _too_ tight, but fuck, the pressure felt good. Garrosh squeezed his eyes closed and enjoyed it: both the pain of his hole stretching open and the jolt that raced to the base of his cock as Lor’themar’s fingers curled inside. He knew he must be smirking, but what did it matter? There was only the ache and the pleasure, the energy coiling deep between his legs.

He could barely stand it. Drawing in a breath, he tried to relax, and let Lor’themar take control.

The elf’s free hand slid from his hip to his abdomen, straying only inches from the base of his cock but refusing to take hold. It instead stroked his belly, as if admiring it, pressing down with the hand inside him while the other traced over the swell. “Feel that, Hellscream?” He murmured. “Look how far I’ve stretched you.”

Of course, he couldn’t look, but he could imagine. The very thought left him weak. Digging his teeth into his upper lip, he yielded to every touch, filled and stretched as he was. He felt so vulnerable; it made his heart race. Lor’themar’s hand slid in and out, and all he could do was feel.

The raggedness of his breath. The pressure against the base of his cock, the warmness that jolted and spread as he slammed himself forward onto the table. It was too much. Thighs tense, hips bucking, he let out a cry far too high to be his own. A splatter hit the marble floor between his feet, and his body collapsed.

The whispers were gone. Blood rushed and pounded in his ears.

Still struggling to catch his breath, he heard Lor’themar take a few steps to his right. His soft shoes padded across the floor and by the time Garrosh looked up he had already made it to the opposite side of map. His gaze was cast on a fleet of ships just south of Krasarang. He wiped his hand on the table, then on the leg of his pants. The Mogu face on the door seemed to leer as another flush claimed Garrosh’s cheeks.

“I am glad we see eye-to-eye.” With a deft ‘swsh’ of his wrist, Lor’themar wrapped his fingers– those talented, nimble fingers– around one of the ships and dragged it to the north. Apparently satisfied, he turned towards the door, his long hair sweeping across his back. And Garrosh stared, too taken by thoughts of reciprocating to care what the elf had just done.

That was it?

No. Though his knees buckled and his fingers shook as he clutched the end of the table, he forced himself to stand. He couldn’t let Lor’themar leave like this, still dressed, his heavy leather garment leaving his feelings about what had just happened a mystery to Garrosh’s searching eyes. All he could see was his back– straight, confident– and the curve of his backside as he shifted to unlock the door.

He wanted to flip the table. To grab him, to draw him back, to tear at the clasps holding closed those tight leather pants and prove he was in control. He wanted to smash those ships and Lor’themar’s delicate face on the floor as he pounded down into him. But instead he stumbled. His ire faded beneath the haze that spread through his body, and he was left: ass bare, face warm.

“Until we meet again, Hellscream.”


End file.
